


Target Practice, or a Comedy of Arrows

by LizzieHarker



Series: A Comedy of Arrows [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Comedy of Errors, Gen, Get it?, I made a pun, Random Adventures, Sometimes Bucky needs a friend who isn't Steve, Target Practice, also lots of coffee, sniper bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 01:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9526226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: Bucky Barnes, aka The Winter Soldier, woke up from cryosleep, dismantled the trigger words in his head, and resumed dating Steve Rogers.He's also in therapy for depression and anxiety, but you can't really blame the guy.It's been a hell of a century.Occasionally, Bucky needs a friend who isn't Steve. Enter Clint Barton, aka, Hawkeye.This is what happens when someone lets Bucky and Clint spend time together without adult supervision.





	

The man occasionally known as the Winter Soldier strode into the archery range, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. Thankfully, Bucky’s target was the only other man in the room, firing arrows as casually as . . . well, as casually as Clint did anything. He was that kinda guy. 

“Barton,” Bucky said, hailing him with one of the cups.

“Barnes.” Clint turned to face him, releasing the bolt. It struck the target, dead center. Of course it did. “And you brought friends.” He slung the bow over his shoulder and made a grabby gesture. “Hello, coffee.”

Bucky handed one over. “Black as my heart and piping hot, just the way you like it,” he said with a wink.

Clint held the coffee with a reverence that would have been embarrassing were it anybody else. “You flirtin’ with me, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, a wry smirk on his face. “Can’t help it. Got a thing for blonds.”

He liked Clint. The man was easy-going, a little reckless, and most importantly, didn’t stare at Bucky as if he expected Bucky’s head to spin around. Bucky got it; he was still shaking off the conditioning, but damn it was nice to spend time with someone who didn’t constantly look over his shoulder. They had a surprising number of things in common, including (unfortunately) being used as weapons.

Clint nodded, took a sip of coffee, melted a little. Lush. “How’s Cap?” he asked.

“Trouble as usual. Got some conference with Stark and wanted me outta the house. Iron Douche still hates me.” Bucky shrugged. “Suits me fine.”

The blond raised an eyebrow, the butterfly bandage over it straining. “You mean I’m your backup plan? You hurt my feelings.” 

“Hardly.” Bucky scoffed. “C’mon, Barton. Show me whatcha got.”

Clint nocked an arrow, pulled the string, and sent the bolt straight through the one he’d put in the bullseye when Bucky walked in. Bucky’s eyes widened in appreciation. He was a damn good shot. For a guy who claimed he didn’t have superpowers, Clint’s inability to miss seemed pretty fucking super. Clint rolled his shoulders. “I’m a little rusty,” he said. 

Bucky snorted. “Right.”

The blond moved off the course and stepped to the side, gently setting his coffee down. “Now you stay right there. I’ll be back for you, beautiful.” He picked up a bow and tossed it to Bucky. “That’s yours. You do well enough with the cheap stuff, I might let you take my baby for a spin.”

Bucky tested the weight of the weapon in his hands. “It ain't a rifle, but I do love a challenge.”

“Explains why you’re with Cap: poor judgment and reckless endangerment are kinda your thing. Both of you.”

Bucky slugged him in the arm. “We love you, too.”

Clint handed him a quiver of arrows. “Boring, fifty-bucks-for-100 shots. How long we got this place for?”

“Long as we want." Don't leave HYDRA account access code in your renegade weapons. Bucky had emptied several accounts during his first months of freedom.

“Know whatcha mean. I got money, too. From . . . places.” Clint watched Bucky raise the bow, testing the string. “Say, you okay with . . . ya know,” he said, holding up his left hand and flexing his fingers. “The, uh, bow’s a rental.”

Bucky pulled off his gloves, then wriggled his metal fingers in turn. “I’ll be gentle. Promise. What’s the game?”

“Don’t shoot me.”

“I was the best shot in the 107th, an assassin, and I’m the one who taught Steve to fight. You’ll be fine.”

Clint shook his head. “None of that is ‘Yeah, Clint, I’ve shot a bow before. I’m reasonably certain I won’t hit you.’”

“I've never fired a bow. Not that I remember, anyway. S’why you’re gonna teach me,” Bucky said, giving him another wink. 

Clint rolled his eyes. “Between you and Katie-Kate, I got my work cut out for me. ‘Cept she’s a natural.”

“Bite me.”

“Eh, Cap might not take too kindly to that, bro. Let’s stick to shooting.” Clint moved around him, adjusting his position. “You got the basics, I guess. Focus on the target. Draw your right hand back, use your mouth as an anchor. It’s kinda like shooting a gun except it’s not like shooting a gun at all.”

Bucky shook his head, but did as instructed. It was nice having something to do with his hands. He still got antsy without a mission, hated how being left to his own devices made him uncomfortable. He’d convinced himself this was as much to hone his skills as to blow off some of that nervous energy.

“Good. Wire tenses, back muscles tighten. I haven’t shot a rifle, but I imagine it’s pretty much the same.”

“Yeah, except the part where it’s not,” Bucky answered. 

“Nah, firing’s the same. Just the result is different." He set his hand against Bucky's shoulder. Clint was one of the few people Bucky felt at ease around; he never let anyone other than Steve get so close. Part of it had to be how confortable Clint felt around him. "Slow your breathing, focus. Deep inhale. Relax your hand, release.”

The bolt grazed the top of the target. 

“Not bad,” Clint said, passing over another arrow. “Won't be much of a game if you don't hit the target though.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, nocked the next shot, aimed lower. Struck the two rings outside the bullseye. “You were saying?”

Clint held up his hands. “All right. If you got the hang of it, let’s play. I got something just for the occasion.” 

He returned to the bench, took a long and loving swig of his coffee, and then pulled a white roll from his bag. Bucky watch him set up the target, trading in the black and white bullseye ring for . . . 

“What the hell is that?” Bucky asked. A full-color image showed three men, one holding a brief case in defense against the other two, hands clawed, mouths open. 

“Zombies.” 

“What?”

“You know, the walking dead. Ur, arg,” Clint said, arms straight out as he shambled back. “These are pretty neat because they change color. You hit the zombie, target goes yellow. You land a kill shot, target goes red. Hit our poor unfortunate businessman, well, the target’s white, but you might feel bad about it.”

Bucky nodded. “Sure.” Zombies weren’t really Bucky’s thing. He’d caught an episode or two of _The Walking Dead_ , but something about it struck him wrong. He did like the one show about the fake psychic zombie girl working in a morgue, though. He attached the quiver to his belt and hefted the bow.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

***

Bucky should have known better than to try winning against Clint. The man never missed and that was irritating. He took out both zombies, then the businessman.

At Bucky’s wry stare, Clint just shrugged. “Assumed he’d been bit. Couldn’t risk letting the virus spread.”

He changed the target, and this time Bucky took out the monster with his first shot. Clint, apparently, had an endless supply of zombies. 

“How about we up the stakes?” Bucky asked. Wagers always made things more fun, and had brought something special for the occasion.

Clint pinned a fresh target into place. This one had a pack of ravenous zombie dogs. Bucky didn’t realize animals were in on the zombie thing, too. “Whatcha got in mind?”

“How many targets you got left?”

“One more after this one.”

“Same one?”

“Yeah.”

“Best outta five.” Bucky smirked. “Whatever tricks ya got.”

Clint eyed him. “Barnes, you know I’m the greatest sharp-shooter in the world, right?”

“And I’m a former Soviet assassin, and an expert marksman.”

“You’re a supersoldier with a metal arm. I’m just a guy. Hawkguy. Whatever.”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m just a guy tryin’ to blow off a little steam. Oh,” he said. He slipped a shiny gold card out of his pocket. “Make that a guy who swiped Steve’s Starbucks card.”

Clint’s eyebrows rose. “Cap’s gotta gold card?”

“Covert missions require a lot of coffee. He’s got enough stars for an army. And free coffee for life or something.”

Clint’s eyes practically glowed. “You’re on.”

“You’re up.”

Clint flexed fingers. “You’re gonna regret this.”

“I ain’t too worried. You’re a cheap date, Barton. S’why I like you so much.”

“Now wonder Cap loves you, Barnes. You’re such a sweet talker.” Without batting a lash, he fired four shots, each arrow striking dead center, splitting the bolt before it in half. The fifth he sent into the ceiling.

Bucky swallowed. 

Clint lifted a shoulder, let it drop. “Told you so. But I scrapped the last one to give you a fair shot. If we’re tied, it’ll serve as sudden death.” He changed the target, gesturing for Bucky to give it his best shot. 

“Sudden is the only kinda death I know,” he replied. Bucky lined up his shot, focusing on his breathing. The first bolt pierced the target, not dead center, but close. Hopefully Stevie wouldn’t notice the sudden lack of coffee funds. 

The second shot followed the first, a hair closer to the bullseye. His good hand shook. He’d never had hand tremors during the war; couldn't afford to. He’d never missed a shot. His perfect record continued after--he was the soldier after all. He narrowed his eyes and sent the third bolt straight through the target. It struck the back wall, the drywall crumbling.

“Hey,” Clint said, stepping closer. “You okay there, Buck?”

The apprehension in Clint’s voice caught Bucky off guard. He rocked onto his heels, coming back to himself. Clint didn’t use his first name unless he was worried. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You sure? You looked gone for a minute there.”

Bucky nodded. “Happens sometimes. S’why I’m in therapy,” he added with a chuckle.

“How’s it goin’?”

This was the part Bucky had been waiting for. Sometimes he thought Steve pushed him to get to know Clint because he’d have another way of making sure Bucky was okay. Clint had promised that anything Bucky said to him would be held in confidence-unless Bucky gave serious reason for concern. 

Of course, sometimes Bucky thought if anyone needed therapy other than him, it’d be Clint. He loved the guy, but Clint was a bit of a disaster.

“It’s . . . weird. Spillin’ my guts to strangers isn’t really my thing, but Steve’s so goddamn proud of me for deciding to go.” Bucky studied his boots, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. Steve always looked at Bucky like he was some kinda miracle. He’d said as much once, a hundred years and a lifetime ago. “I don’t want to disappoint him.”

Clint eyed him. “But how do you feel about it? Can’t do it for him. Gotta do it for yourself.”

Bucky lowered his bow. “I thought it’d feel good, you know. Having someone else tell me I’m not crazy. I mean, it _does_ feel good, it's hard work. I expected that, but I didn’t expect how often I’d have to fight.” He sighed. “The depression and anxiety doesn’t just go away, and I was, I dunno, hoping it would.” He gave a half shrug. Therapy had helped, but despite dismantling the trigger words, all the poison Hydra put in him remained. He felt it leach into his dreams, into his muscle memory. Days went by where it took the world to get Bucky out of bed. Thinking about it now stirred the dark things beneath his skin.

“Know whatcha mean.” Clint tapped a finger against his hearing aid. “But you got two choices: you can let what Hydra did run your life, or you can fight tooth and nail to make it your own. It doesn’t get easier, but it gets less, you know, tough.”  


Bucky nodded. Nothing worth doing was easy. “I know whatcha mean.” 

He took up his stance again. He wasn’t a sniper or a soldier anymore— he was just Bucky. That carried its own kind of fear. 

The fourth bolt split the second. He was going to lose, but at least he was enjoying himself. He set his last shot across the bow.

On second thought, he plucked a nock from Clint’s quiver and set up the shot. 

Clint smirked. “You’re gonna miss with that one, bro,” he warned.

Bucky arched a brow, nocked the bolt, and loosed it. It sailed over the target, turned . . .

And shot right back at him. 

Bucky side-stepped; the bolt struck the opposite wall with a pop. 

Clint shook his head, a knowing grin on his face. “Boomerang arrow. Always comes back to ya.” He went to pat Bucky’s shoulder and stopped. Instead, he shot toward the opposite side of the room.

Bucky followed his gaze. This looked bad.

The arrow had neatly pinned Clint’s coffee up to the wall, black liquid rushing out like a waterfall. 

Clint whimpered. “Aw, coffee, no.” He reached for the cup, which split in half. He turned, letting out a sigh.

The twang of a bowstring was the only warning Bucky had before the bolt struck his left arm. He jumped at the sensation, something like pins-and-needles, before the whirring of the servos stopped.

“Electro-bolt,” Clint explained as Bucky’s arm deactivated. “It won’t last,” he continued. “But you’re a menace, and I can’t have that. You, Winter Soldier, are taking your superhuman ass and Cap’s gold card over to Starbucks and gettin’ me a new cup. Make it two. Biggest size they got.”

“That’s like a gallon of coffee, Barton.”

“Yeah.” Of course it was. Clint lived off coffee. 

Bucky sighed. Steve was gonna notice eventually, but at least Bucky had time to generate a plausible lie. He offered Clint what was left of his own coffee. Clint glowered.

“We’re still cool, right?” Bucky asked, leaving the bow and quiver on the bench.

Clint lifted Steve’s gold card, letting it shine in the sunlight. Bucky patted at his back pocket. Damn circus guy. Clint gave him a lopsided grin. 

“Yeah, bro. We’re good.”


End file.
